


Mouth Full of White Lies

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate universe - Mafia, Consent Issues, Everyone lies, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 15:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16935987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: In an effort to learn more about its relatively young ruler, one Timothy Drake, Jason goes undercover in one of Gotham's smaller crime families. It takes some time, but eventually he manages to get himself noticed just enough to be assigned protection for one of the higher ranking members, in a prime position to catch the eye of the family head. But Timothy is... not what he expected. Not at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This story was actually originally intended to be posted for JayTim week (Mafia prompt), but NaNoWriMo happened and I was... dead, that week. So, here it is! There's a second chapter as well, to come later. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~~(For anyone who needs it, the consent issues come from the fact that both characters are lying, not that they don't both want it. It's second chapter.)~~

"Jackson Farrelli," he introduces himself as, with a crooked grin and his hands shoved in his pockets. "I hear you guys are looking for a few more bodies for some security work. Positions still open?"

The recruiter, already familiar with Jason's not-actually-Italian alias, grins back, and Jason knows the work's his even before the man confirms it.

Damn well should be his; he's been building this alias up for months, running little errands and making just enough noise to get himself noticed as clever enough to be useful without being dangerous, and ambitious enough to do well without crossing over into disloyalty. Not much that mob families like these hate more than employees that go against that idea of _family_. It's all about loyalty, and who can be trusted like a son, or a brother. He can play that part.

Four months in, here he is finally getting a position above grunt. Nothing all that fancy, but it's security for the big names in the family, and that gets him close enough to catch the eye of the very biggest fish.

Timothy Drake, youngest heir to the family in decades, after the assassination of both parents. Presumably he's being 'assisted' by what more distant family is still alive, but Jason doubts that they actually have all that much influence. Drake, after all, is a genius; Jason's seen the test results, not to mention the grades he got in both school and college. Exemplary, all of it. Drake's skated past every challenge so far, and the very distinct rise in mafia activity and efficiency says he's doing the same here.

Thus, why Jason's taken the time to get close enough for a real read. Maybe he can get enough information to bring Drake down, if he's close enough (playing by Bruce's stupid rules, so he has to compile enough to do it all _legally;_ what a pain). At the least, he can get a measure of Drake, and maybe see if this family is one he really wants to bring down, or if he can let them off with a warning and some new rules. Be nice to keep them around, if possible. He'll take organized, honorable crime families over psychotic villains and idiot amateurs any day, no contest.

They fit him for a suit, tell him to report back in a week to start, and send him off with a small pocket-book of guidelines on behavior, etiquette. In between working on his other cases, Jason memorizes enough of it to be sure that any mistakes he makes will be on purpose.

Then he hands off everything with a time limit to Barbara (she’ll track the email and box of evidence back to him, but he doesn’t care) and heads off to his new ‘job.’

One of the perks of being dead your entire adult life is that he doesn’t have to do much in the way of disguises. He dyes the streak of white in his hair to match the black of the rest, covers up some of the more obvious scars on his neck, shoulders, and lower arms (just in case), and calls it a day. Not like anyone knows his face anyway.

Jason gets assigned to one of the older heads; manager of the ‘protection’ side of things, except in this case it actually does mean protection. Family looks out for its own, and if you pay them, you’re theirs. It’s a better deal than most other gangs Jason’s had the pleasure of bringing to their knees.

He’s not real interesting, and Jason’s only assigned as backup anyway. He guards the house, runs a few simple errands, and bides his time. Then, subtly doses both the more experienced guards with a slow-acting poison that should do just enough to simulate food poisoning, the night before a family gathering. It’s enough to get him invited along as a guard, with both of them forced to call out sick.

Just as planned.

Getting stuck outside, however, waiting by the car… That’s not what he had in mind for the night.

Jason shifts, hands in his pockets as he watches the large, very firmly closed double doors of the Drake manor’s front entrance. He’s been in once before, back when he was Robin. It’s a nice place; probably still is assuming things haven’t changed all that much.

Well, maybe it was foolish to think they’d let him right in, after he’s only been in this spot for a couple weeks. Would have been nice though, saved him the trouble of sticking around long enough to get invited to another one of these dinners, or some other event with enough of the family that he can try to catch Drake’s attention. That’ll be a challenge all on its own, doing enough to make Drake be interested in him while having to keep it a positive interaction. It’ll be completely worthless if Drake only notices him out of irritation.

He messes with his phone while he waits, pointedly ignoring the various communiques from his actual family, apart from what information it gives him. (‘Family’ is a little bit of a questionable title anyway; god knows what Jason is to them these days, or they are to him.)

When the doors finally do crack open again, Jason’s feeling the chill in the air and mildly wishing he’d brought a jacket. Or, that the driver of his particular old-timer had left the keys with him instead of taking them inside. When it does, he straightens up off the car and tucks his phone away after clicking it to silent.

The group that slips out the doors is clearly the family heads, with their gaggle of guards following shortly behind and slowly pairing off with their various assignments. Jason recognizes his own, shifts to stand at attention, and then a moment later sees a smaller, younger figure among the older ones. Drake.

He’s shorter than almost all of the rest of them, thin and young, in a perfectly fitting black suit that makes him look pale in contrast. Just like the pictures Jason studied at the beginning of this whole plan. He doesn’t cut an intimidating figure at first glance, but there’s no way he’d have kept control at his age unless there’s more to him, and by the way the family heads move around him — with deference, never in his way, always a touch of subservience as they speak to him — he definitely has control.

Jason’s a little fascinated.

They start to split apart, and Jason’s still watching Drake when his head turns to look at him. Or his direction, anyway. Jason doesn’t look away, and after a moment Drake returns his attention to the few left still around him. The flash of a smile, some words too low for Jason to catch even a hint of them, and then the last few people go their separate ways. Drake falls into step beside Jason's, two suited guards at his back adding to the driver Jason came with.

For a second, Jason freezes. He's not prepared for this to happen _right now_. He doesn't have enough information about Drake's personality to know what he can do to call the right kind of attention, but if he doesn't take the chance it might be awhile before he gets another one. Fuck.

He takes a breath, holds his ground at the passenger side door. Alright, first, don't fuck up the basics. No attention is better than bad attention, so he'll just do his job and wait. Anything on top of that is good, but not necessary.

They're chatting about something as they draw closer, low voices and small smiles. They stop before he can catch any actual words though, and Drake's gaze flicks momentarily to him. Sharp, light blue eyes find his, and Jason gets an immediate, stinging prickle in his chest. Instinct, honed from years on Gotham's streets as orphan and Robin alike. Drake looks away but the feeling stays, and the message Jason’s getting couldn’t be any clearer.

Timothy Drake is dangerous. He’s sure of it.

“Always lovely to have you, Uncle,” Drake’s saying, with the flicker of a smile that doesn’t even begin to reach his eyes. “Thank you for your input.”

“Of course, Timothy. The family is always here to provide experience where you might need it.” One hand pats Drake’s shoulder, and the older mafia head’s smile does reach his eyes, or at least comes close to it. “Take care, my boy.”

“I always do.”

Jason, sensing the cue more than getting any definitive sign, shifts to the side to pull open the car’s door. The driver is already circling to take his spot as well. He feels Drake’s gaze on him again, but pretends it takes several moments — his current employer getting into the car — for him to notice. Only then does he glance over, and finds Drake watching him without any apparent shame at getting caught doing it.

He blinks, and then Drake is stepping slightly to the side, bending to call in, “Uncle?” through the still open car door. “Would you mind if I borrowed your guard?”

Fuck. Did he fuck up somewhere? Does Drake know who he is?

“Of course not. What do you need him for?”

Drake makes a noncommittal hum of sound and steps forward, only a foot or so away from Jason and looking up at him. “I need a body for my meeting.” Then, directed at him, “Grin for me.”

A little confused, but not about to get Drake pissed at him if it hasn’t happened yet, Jason pushes his mouth into a small grin. Drake frowns.

“No. Vicious, if you can.”

“If you just need a body,” ‘Uncle’ calls from inside the car, “I’m sure there are more experienced ones around here somewhere. Like those mountains behind you. This boy’s only been on my staff a week or two; he might not be what you need.”

Jason lets his eyes narrow, his mouth curl further up at the corners as he turns the forced grin into a baring of teeth, wild and threatening. Vicious? He can do vicious in his sleep.

Now, Drake gives a thin smile. “I don’t need a brute,” he says, nodding something that Jason thinks is approval. “I need a loose cannon; they’re more disturbing if you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Thank you, Uncle. I’ll return him when I’m done with him.”

“Take your time,” is the last call from inside the car, before Drake reaches forward and pushes the door closed himself.

As the car starts, Drake steps back and clasps both hands behind him, turning away but tossing a, “Walk with me,” over his shoulder.

Jason falls into step behind him, and the aforementioned ‘mountains’ are just a step further, all but breathing down his neck. One as tall as he is, the other even a couple inches more, both built more like Bruce with wide shoulders and a clear emphasis on muscle-gain. Jason’s not too worried; he can take them, if worst comes to worst. He’s fought and beat bigger, and better trained. (Not Bruce but that’s… that’s a different story. One he really doesn’t want to think about right now.)

“You haven’t stood in on any meetings so far, right?” Drake asks.

“No, sir.”

They climb the several stairs leading up to the manor’s door, and Jason notices just before they reach it that there’s still one car left in the driveway, lingering at the edge. Whoever the meeting is with; must be.

“You’ll stand at my back, look threatening. Don’t make any move unless I tell you to. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.” Drake strides towards the doors without pause, and they open before him before he even has to slow. He does look back briefly. “I want you to stand there, and look like you’re thinking about ripping out their throat. Can you do that?”

Jason resists smiling, since it doesn’t quite fit the character he’s playing. Instead he speeds up just a touch to draw a little closer, and answers with a simple, “Yes, sir.”

Drake leads them all through a corridor, then to a door on one side. There’s no hesitation in how he pushes it open, leading with a shoulder and an instantly forged smile. Jason, in the same breath, puts away any hint of the new, nervous recruit and falls more back against what he really is. Drake doesn’t know this persona anyway; so what if he goes outside its bounds? Usually he’s the one leading negotiations, but he’s not unfamiliar with this side of things.

Make them nervous, make them want out of the room as quickly as possible. They’ll give in to your demands.

It’s an office, a man and two guards built just as much of muscle as the ones following Jason and Drake already occupying it. Jason recognizes the man, sitting in the chair in front of the desk, as one of the Maronis. No one terribly important, or he’d remember a real name, but he recognizes the face. He’s only a few years older than Drake, by Jason’s guess.

Drake sweeps towards the other side of the desk, and Jason follows. The two mountains take up positions on either side of the door. “Maroni, thank you for coming. You enjoyed dinner, I hope?”

“It was very good, of course.” Maroni smiles, not particularly friendly, as Drake takes his seat. “Prepared to do business now, Timothy?”

Jason falls into his position, eyeing up Maroni and maybe letting a little bit of how much he’d like to put a bullet in his head shine through his eyes. Matches it with leaning just a little forward onto the balls of his feet, close behind the high-backed chair that Drake’s sitting in.

Maroni doesn’t quite swallow. He does shift in his chair slightly, before reining his gaze back down to who he’s supposed to be dealing with.

He can’t see it from this angle, but he can hear the smile in Drake’s voice.

“Of course. Shall we begin?”

 

* * *

 

Jason stands there, listening to the deal being negotiated. Shifts or draws attention, when Maroni gets a little too comfortable with all of it.

Drake talks _circles_ around him, getting him to lay out every detail without ever giving away more than necessary himself. By the time Maroni’s ready to leave, the deal hammered out on the desk between them and agreed to, he's starting to look just a little sick around the edges. Maybe from the nervousness, or maybe from realizing the subtly terrible terms he's just shook on. (Nothing blatant, just every term cedes a little bit more territory and rights than the Maroni family would probably like.)

"Thanks for your time," Drake says as he stands, not a hint of how pleased he must be in his tone. "Please, feel free to call me anytime if you want to discuss any other business arrangements."

Maroni's jaw is tight, but he manages something vaguely accepting in answer.

"Boys, escort Mr. Maroni and his friends back to the car, won't you? Make sure to pick up his jacket from the front as well."

Jason shifts, but a flicker of one of Drake's hands stills him before he can even start to wonder if that command applies to him as well. The mountains, on the other hand, open and hold the door for Maroni as he and his guards head outside. It shuts behind them, and Drake sits back down in his chair.

One idle push of his leg tilts the chair away from the desk, enough that Jason can see it as Drake stares across the room without any real target, gaze as long as if he's looking right through the walls. The fingers of one hand tap across the desk, and then just like that he's focused again, one leg crossing over the other.

"Take a seat," is the order.

Jason only considers for a moment before he chooses to slide onto the corner of the desk, instead of taking the seat on the opposite side. Maybe it's accurate to Jackson Farrelli's bluster, maybe it's not, but Jason's more interested in the game here than he is the longer con. He has enough now to make a good start on dismantling both Drake's and the Maroni's drug trades, if he wanted to.

Drake's gaze flicks over him, taking him in in one sharp sweep. "Jackson, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

A flicker of a smile. "Tim is fine, if you're brave enough. I wouldn't expect someone who isn't Italian to have a last name like Farrelli."

As he regurgitates his invented, "No, it was my dad's name; mother and I took it when she married him," he debates whether that gift of Drake's first name is a trap. Something to weed out the ones all too willing to be personal, maybe? He lets his voice lighten a little, like it's a joke. "I'll call you Tim if you want me to, but otherwise I'll probably stick with sir, if you don't mind."

The smile grows a little. "I don't."

Drake leans forward and reaches out, and Jason can't quite help the hitch to his breath at the hand heading right for— The drawer. The drawer between where his legs are hanging.

"Excuse me," Drake says, with the flicker of a smirk.

Jason has to shift his legs a little further apart to let him slide the drawer out, and it's a _weird_ feeling with Drake looking up at him like he knows exactly the worries that just flashed through Jason's mind. (He'll take punching Drake over keeping his cover, if he has to, but he really doesn't want all this to end like that. Getting grabbed by the dick is not how he wants this to go.)

Out of the drawer, Drake pulls a carton of cigarettes. Holds it up to him.

"Thanks," Jason manages, taking the carton with only a little bit of pause. They're an expensive brand, not one he's tried before.

As he shakes one out, Drake pulls a lighter from the drawer and holds that up as well. Jason takes it, and offers the carton, only for Drake to put it back into the drawer.

"None for you?" he asks, before putting the cigarette between his lips to hold it as he flicks the lighter on.

Drake shakes his head. "I don't smoke."

Jason doesn't quite freeze, luckily, but he does think through the implications of that, rapid-fire, as he lights the cigarette. Looking down at the flame gives him an excuse to avoid Drake's eyes, for a couple seconds.

Was this a gamble? Offering him the cigarettes without asking, not knowing whether he'd take one? Or was it just assumed that he'd take one, to not say no and risk offending Drake? Or, the most worrying option, does Drake know a lot more about his fake persona than just its name? Has he been being watched? Was today not coincidence? If Drake's been watching him long enough to know some little details about him, has he noticed anything strange? Jason would be the first to admit that someone watching carefully would probably be able to tell that there's something off about 'Jackson Farrelli.'

He takes a slow breath of the smoke, letting his eyes shut as the flavor slides over his tongue. It's… It's good, definitely.

"If you don't smoke, why do you have them?" Jason asks, as he opens his eyes again. He remembers the 'sir' belatedly, but decides not to look awkward trying to add it on after the fact.

Drake leans back into the chair, watching as he puts the lighter back into the drawer and closes it. "Normally, because it tends to relax people. Make them drop their guard. In this case, consider it a reward for a job well done."

"Thank you." Jason lets the cigarette burn, rolling the words over his tongue a couple times before he decides to say them. "It was pretty impressive, watching you do that. Do you think he'll honor the deal?"

There's a flicker to Drake's gaze, something sharp, but it vanishes as fast as it came. "Yes, he will. For long enough, anyway."

That's interesting phrasing.

"Long enough, sir?"

Drake pushes to his feet, shoulders falling back into an easy, straight posture. He steps forward, and this time Jason's breath doesn't hitch as he leans close, reaching across the desk. It puts them close, very close, and Jason gets a breath that's half the scent of the smoke and half a cologne. Deep, rich. Something woodsy. Drake straightens up again, and Jason's gaze flicks down to find a small ashtray being dragged over next to his thigh. Silver-plated.

"If you don't mind," Drake says, with a flick of his fingers.

He takes the hint, and taps off the excess ash into the dish.

Drake steps off to the side, hands lifting to shrug out of the suit jacket. Beneath, there's a dark red shirt, tucked in at the waist and the same perfectly-tailored fit as the suit itself. He drapes the jacket over the back of the chair, and lifts both hands to his tie.

"I don't need him to hold to it for long, just a couple weeks should do."

"And then?"

Maybe he's pressing further than he should, but Jason wants to know, and Drake seems to be in a good enough mood to tell him.

The tie joins the suit jacket. Drake turns back to look at him. "Then, I'll turn him over to someone with a little more interest in the law than me."

No way. Drake's an informant? For what, the cops? FBI? How could Jason possibly not have heard about that during his initial investigation? Those are the kinds of things that leave records, especially when it's government agencies handling it. That, or there would be an 'understanding,' to make sure Drake doesn't get caught up in any other operations. Either way, there would be _tracks_.

"The cops?" he asks, but Drake shakes his head, gaze flicking briefly towards the door. "Isn't it dangerous, being an informant? What if someone finds out?" ( _'And why are you telling me?'_ he wants to ask, but doesn't.)

"It would be," Drake agrees, "but I'm not. I just… drop hints, where the right ears will hear them." He gives a flicker of a smile, and takes two steps forward to lean up, one hand bracing on Jason's shoulder and a mouth coming up near his jaw. "Pointed, very _sensitive_ ears."

Jason gets that, just a second after Drake pushes away and heads for the glass cabinet in one corner, with the obvious bottles of alcohol inside.

Bats. Drake drops information to the _Bats_ to sell out his rivals and get them taken out of his way. That's… That's pretty good. If Bruce or Dick are handed a lead, they'll follow it even if they can't find out where it came from, at least until they know whether it's good information or not. It's a pretty damn efficient way to get other people taken out of your way, assuming that you're pointing them towards something legitimate. Which…

Jason can't help the huff of laughter, gaze lifting from the carpet as he remembers all those critical little details of the deal he just made. "One of the territories you gave Maroni was around the schools."

Drake's holding a bottle of what looks like it might be scotch, and two glasses between the fingers of his other hand. His smile is sharp. "I did." The glasses are set on the desk, and Drake opens the bottle. "I know of at least one Gotham vigilante who really hates it when people deal to kids. If Maroni makes that mistake, my pointy-eared listeners might not even make it to him. If they do, well, they won't hesitate to take someone like that out of the picture, will they?"

Jason watches the scotch pour into the glasses. "You're ruthless," slips out of his mouth.

Instead of being offended, Drake just smiles, and picks up a glass to hand to him. "And _you're_ a little too smart to be working as a guard."

Their fingers brush when Jason takes the glass, and there's a feeling in the pit of his stomach like he's in free fall. Nerve-wracking but familiar enough that all he feels is the thrill of it, as Drake holds his gaze with those cool blue eyes.

"Caught me," he says, and wonders for just a second whether Drake really has. Does he know?

Then the gaze flicks down to let Drake cap the bottle, and pick up the second glass. "Do you want a position here, Mr. Farrelli? Something a little more interesting than standing around in a suit?"

No, no that's just Jason's imagination. Like how he's been imagining any ulterior motive to Drake being physically close to him; he was just reaching for things, proven both times. That doesn't mean anything any more than Drake talking about the Red Hood, and then mentioning that Jason's too smart to be here, means anything. He's reading into things that aren't there.

He cracks a smile, lifting his glass slightly in offering. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Drake's glass clinks against his. "Then, to new beginnings."

"New beginnings, sir."

The scotch is pretty damn good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Second/last chapter of this; have fun!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)   
>  You can find my Pillowfort here!
> 
> (For those that need it, this chapter contains some weird consent issues, with both characters consenting but also lying about their motives. Leave a comment if you need details.)

Jason gets, to his surprise, a place right next to Drake. Right hand, practically, though probably assistant is a better term for it. He wasn't expecting half as much, but hey, anything that accelerates his plans is welcome; as Drake's 'assistant' he has a better position to gain information than practically anywhere else.

Also, Drake's not bad company. He's smart enough that Jason thinks he and Barbara would get along great, sharp-edged and cutting when he wants to be, and Jason's never once seen him be unnecessarily cruel, also to his surprise. The closest Jason's seen him come to cruel, over the last couple weeks, is cutting down to size the people that think they can condescend because he's young. Those people, Drake has absolutely no tolerance for.

And, as it turns out, Jason is absolutely not imagining that Drake likes to be close to him. Maybe all those times reaching past him, or walking so close they almost brush, are necessary, but there's a point where coincidence starts becoming the unlikely option, and they're far past it. No, Drake is very intentionally… flirting? Jason's pretty sure it's flirting, even though that's something he's got about zero experience with. He does it to throw people off, sometimes, but he's all blatant innuendos and teasing and he doesn't mean even an inch of it. He's really not sure what to do with this non-vocal, looks-and-proximity thing.

Drake — Tim, Jason's started to think of him as, more and more — isn't aggressive about it, he's not pressing. He's just… there. Close.

Jason finds himself minding a lot less than he thought he would. Normally he's not fond of people getting too close to him, but Drake doing it doesn't bother him, for whatever reason. He's just… aware of it. Very aware of it.

Drake’s not bad looking by any means, and he’s let his thoughts wander once or twice. Just a little. Maybe it’s sent him on a couple internet searches to make sure he actually knows the mechanics of it, since he’s never done anything with a guy beyond a kiss or two. Not that they ever really meant anything; fooling around by guys who weren’t into it (except he was).

If Drake did want to do more than that, maybe he wouldn’t be opposed.

He didn't go into this at all expecting for Drake to be this decent, honestly. He was sort of expecting more classic gang behavior; torture and murder and so on, when it suited them. (Then again, he's only been around for a couple weeks, maybe he's just missed it.) It's strange but sort of refreshing to have someone actually falling in line with what he normally demands of gangs. Mostly, anyway. Minimal damage, minimal casualties, very little taking advantage of the people that are helpless to stop it (women, children, the minorities that just don't have the support, etc.).

It's not the answer he thought he'd come up with, but Jason's pretty sure he's going to leave Drake's group alone. He's not Bruce, he doesn't believe that all crime needs to be eradicated. One family, running it clean and sane? He'll take that over a power vacuum any day; Gotham's got enough pieces of shit in it already without opening the door to more by taking down one of the major powers.

So really, the only reason he's still here is for whatever information he can get about other gangs and families, and maybe to save this alias for later use. All he needs to do is make some excuse for why he's leaving after only a few weeks doing steady work. A… sick family member, maybe. Distant call to repay a debt. Something suitably appealing to senses of loyalty and honor. Something that will let him stay away for as long as needed.

If he wasn’t a little reluctant to leave. Not… It’s not that he wants to stay, exactly, but he’s curious about the attention from Drake. He wants to know why he’s getting it.

That’s all, he just wants to know.

 

* * *

 

Tim stretches his legs out beneath the desk as he finishes off the last bit of paperwork, carefully blotting the excess ink away and then tucking it away into a folder with everything else. One of the runners will pick them up in the morning and distribute as necessary; there’s nothing on any of that confidential enough that someone sneaking a peek will do anything.

He takes a glance at the time, then at Jackson, sitting in an armchair across the room with his feet up on the rest, paging through a sheaf of his own papers. Proposals, from other pieces of the family and potential business associates both. It helps to have an initial eye go over them, weeding out anything absolutely terrible.

In the moment of free time he has, before Jackson’s sure to notice his gaze, he admires the long stretch of those legs, and how the fabric pulls tight against his thighs. Thighs he’d dearly love to get a more personal look at. Or more than a look.

“Anything interesting?” he asks, before he can get caught looking.

Jackson shuffles to the next page. “One or two. Got notes on the front with summaries; just a couple more to go.”

Tim stands, craning his neck to one side till it gives a muted crack, easing a bit of the stiffness. “Good. Care for a drink?”

Jackson's eased the formalities a little more with each week, so while the answer is still, “Sure, sir,” the question doesn't even get him to raise his head.

He moves to his drink cabinet, and pours two cups. Scotch, for himself, and whiskey for Jackson. He'll drink scotch, if Tim hands him some, but not with the same enjoyment as the whiskey. It's one of the little details that Tim's been cataloging, little pieces of the man that he didn't know.

Like the way he sweeps his bangs back one-handed in probably an entirely subconscious movement when he starts to read something, not that it does anything but delay it falling back. The strong timbre of his voice, without any of the rasp you'd expect from a smoker. The details of the scars on his knuckles, one middle finger a little more crooked than the other, like it was broken and didn't heal quite straight. (The exact shape of the bulge in his pants, and what that implies for a more intimate view. Far from his favorite tidbit, but it's… enlightening. Nice to imagine.)

He brings the drinks over, watching Jackson scribble something onto one of the post-its he's got next to him, then tear it off and stick it to the paper he's reading. Tim settles himself on the arm of the chair, as Jackson flips to the last in his collection of proposals. There's a moment of hesitation, a glance at his hip where it's only a couple inches away from Jackson's arm, but the glass he offers is taken. Balanced on the other arm of the chair.

Tim takes a sip from his own, tilting slightly sideways so he’s in a position to scan over the paper as Jackson does. If it brushes his side against one solid shoulder, well, that’s just a coincidence.

“Mm,” he hums, after a few moments where Jackson seems to look more at his side than the actual paper. “That one’s no good. Don’t bother with the summary; I’ll do it.”

Jackson blinks, just a little startled (a little distracted, more like), but clears his throat and shuffles the papers back into their original order. “Got it. Here, then.”

Damp clings to his fingers as he switches his glass to the other hand to take the papers, but he doesn’t mind that; the proposals aren’t important enough for him to care if they get a little damaged. Most of it should dry out anyway. (What doesn’t, he can always make copies of if he needs to.)

“Thank you,” he says, with a smile and just enough of a pause, before sliding off the armchair and crossing back to his desk. He drops the pile front and center on his desk. “How about dinner?” gets tossed over his shoulder, as if he doesn’t care whether Jackson joins him or not.

He does, but admitting that wouldn’t be in the spirit of the game, now would it?

There’s a pause, and Tim takes another sip of the scotch in it, before his answer comes. “Sounds good, sir.”

Jackson’s coming closer and closer to breaking point, he’s sure of it. He’s already strung tight, questioning every interaction, and eventually, he’s just going to ask what Tim’s doing, or he’ll snap in some other way. Tim’s interested to see what it will be, though of course he has his preferences. Some roads are more likely to lead to the outcome he wants than others; Jackson in his bed, to start with.

Tim collects his suit jacket from the back of his chair, laying it over his arm and turning back. He didn’t pour all that much of it, so finishing his drink is a simple matter of a quick swallow. The clink of him setting his glass down is echoed by Jackson doing the same, legs swinging off the footrest and to the floor as he stands. Stretches, arms above his head and body one long, trim line.

“Here, or out somewhere?”

He only considers for a moment, mainly influenced by how the formal shirt draws tight along Jackson's shoulders. “Here. Something more private, I think.”

Again, that flicker of hesitation. Still, Jackson nods his acceptance after a second, something a little wary in the set of his expression. Tim pretends not to see it; by his judgment, he’s very, _very_ close to getting what he wants.

Jackson moves to the door first, to open it for him, and Tim makes sure to brush against him as he slips out despite there being more than enough room to avoid it. He hears the little inhalation, but doesn’t comment on it any more than he does the pause before he’s followed.

They never actually make it to the dining hall. Jackson circles to open another door for him, but just a tad too slow from lack of experience. Their hands meet on the handle, and for a moment Tim feels the broad, warm skin underneath his palm, knuckles rough from a dozen little scars. Then Jackson yanks back like he’s been burned, hard enough to dislodge his palm, hard enough that Tim couldn’t pretend to ignore it even if he wanted to.

He meets that wild edge to Jackson’s gaze head on instead, holding the look as he asks, “Everything alright?”

Jackson swallows, visibly. Struggles for a moment, before managing a slightly desperate, “What are you doing?”

Responses jump to his tongue, but Tim swallows down the automatic evasions. If Jackson was dull or distractable enough to be led astray by a few words, he probably wouldn’t be as interesting as he is. So instead Tim turns towards him, giving the question and the man the respect they deserve.

“Teasing, tempting, testing… Take your pick of words, really.” Jackson’s brow draws down, jaw setting, and Tim gives a slanted smile. “I was waiting to see how you were going to respond.”

The jaw grinds, and Jackson’s voice drops to something a little lower, a little more dangerous. “So you’ve seen. Were you expecting something else?”

“Mm, well I wasn’t entirely sure.” He lets his gaze flick down Jackson’s frame, and drag up the length of his legs. “Maybe you responded differently to pressure. Maybe you were going to shove me up against a wall and kiss me.”

That surprises Jackson, but only for the briefest moment. Then his gaze sharpens to something nearly calculating, gaze flickering down for a moment. “Sounds suicidal.”

He lets his smile sharpen. “Only if I wasn’t interested.”

For a second, as Jackson’s eyes narrow and his back straightens, he looks nothing like the slightly cocky, but mainly obedient, underling Tim’s been watching the last couple weeks. “What if _I’m_ not?”

Fair enough. He never did find out what Jackson’s taste in partners was.

“I’ll be disappointed,” Tim admits, honestly, “but that will be the end of it. I’ll keep my distance, but nothing else will change. This won’t have any bearing on your employment, one way or another.”

Even with the assurance, there’s a few seconds where Tim thinks that maybe he pushed too hard, too fast. Jackson stands straight, studying him, but doesn’t offer a word. And for once, Tim has difficulty deciphering exactly what his expression means. Still, he holds his ground, waiting for the decision with as calm a front as he’s possible of. The nerves in his stomach are almost a surprise, it’s been so long since he was nervous about anything, but he doesn’t let any of it show on his face.

Finally, something hardens in Jackson’s expression and he takes a half step forward. It’s close enough that Tim has to tilt his head back to still meet that blue-green gaze. Close enough that Jackson towers over him, and if Tim were anyone else, maybe he’d be wary. He’s not, though. Couldn’t be. Not of this man.

Jackson’s voice is low, almost rough, as he asks, “And what if I am?”

The nerves swoop up into his chest in a sudden burst of elation, making him feel nearly high as he takes a small breath in and feels himself smile. “Then I think I made my intentions clear, but I can try again if you want.”

He lifts a hand as he takes a half-step forward, grazing his fingertips along the edge of Jackson’s jaw; smooth under his touch for now, warm. Nothing stops him from reaching further, curling his fingers into short, black hair and pulling down, just enough to get the hint across. Jackson bends, he pushes up on his toes, and the first brush of their lips is something careful and testing. The second isn’t.

Tim lets his jacket fall to the floor as he brings his other hand up, cupping it along the angle of Jackson’s jaw, the tips of his fingers brushing an ear. It’s only a moment afterwards that Jackson’s gripping him in turn, with one hand at his waist and the other tunneling through his hair, holding the back of his skull to support where it’s tilted back to make the angle. He hums his encouragement. The sound, or maybe the vibration, gets him a small, barely even voiced sound of pleasure from Jackson, quiet enough it would have been inaudible if they weren’t so close.

He only very barely stops himself from biting into that slightly chapped bottom lip as they pull apart, wanting to hold on in whatever limited way he can.

“Is that clear enough?” he asks, only slowly opening his eyes.

Jackson is even slower than he is, eyelids only flickering open after Tim’s looking up at him. A tongue wets his lips. “Yes, sir.”

The laugh escapes before he can think to contain it, coming from that high, soaring place in his chest. “Tim,” he presses, and then he smirks as he remembers and repeats something from the early days of their meeting. “If you’re brave.”

It gets a small, crooked smile out of Jackson. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Good.” Reluctantly, he slides free of Jackson’s grip, but catches one of his hands with his own before it can fully fall. “Somewhere private?”

Jackson’s fingers squeeze his. “That sounds good.”

Tim sinks to one knee so he can pick his jacket up off the ground, and only releases Jackson’s hand when he stands again. Though he only does it so he can wrap his fingers around his wrist instead.

“Come with me.”

Jackson goes with him willingly, following at his heels as he reverses direction towards the deeper parts of the manor. He has no intention of having this be something hurried or crass. This may be his only chance, after all, and he’s damn well not going to waste it on a quick fuck over a desk or up against a wall.

Luckily, his room isn’t far away.

Tim leads Jackson through the door, and only then lets go of his wrist so he can turn and shut it behind them. Then there’s just them, the silence, and Jackson, exactly where Tim’s wanted him. Well, except for the distance between them, but that he can fix.

“So what do you like?” he asks, keeping his voice low as he sets aside his suit jacket and then approaches. “Or do you want me to just experiment and see what I find?”

Jackson takes in an obvious breath as Tim lifts both hands to his collar, to the first button on his shirt. “Wait, I—” Jackson cuts off, but there are hands wrapping around his wrists, holding him back from opening the shirt. “I…”

“What is it?” he asks, restraining any part of him that wants to react with anything but a controlled concern. If he needs to wait a few seconds more? He’ll wait.

Another breath, a little deeper this time, and Jackson’s gaze lifts to meet his. “When I was a kid, there was a… an incident, a hostage thing that went… really sideways. I have a lot of scars.”

Ah. Well, yes, that is something to warn about, isn’t it? Can’t be pleasant to reveal them and have a partner freak out on you. He knew, but that isn’t the point.

“Alright.” The grip on his wrists loosens, and he twists one enough to trace his fingers along the underside of Jackson’s wrist. “Scars don’t bother me. You can have my word about that; I won’t mind.”

Jackson’s shoulders ease, head dipping a little. “Okay. Can I admit something else then, while I’m doing this?”

Tim nods. “Of course.”

This secret seems even harder than the first, but Tim makes himself stay calm and patient in the seconds it takes for Jackson to inhale, and then scrape out, “I haven’t done this before. Ever.”

 _‘Really?’_ he wants to say, but he swallows that impulse down. He doesn’t waste time pretending that he doesn’t understand the sentence either, even if the wording could be considered a little vague. That would do a disservice to Jackson, and it’s hardly the right way to start this night.

He pauses, taking the time to ingest that, to spin it around with his tongue as he considers an answer. He doesn’t mind. No, he’s the furthest thing from minding. The idea that he’ll be the only one to touch Jackson this way, the only one to _have_ him, well… Tim’s never denied the idea that he might be a little possessive. Some might even call it obsessive. He’s very aware of his own peculiarities.

“Never with a man, or never at all?” is what he settles on.

Jackson’s shifting towards being wound tight again. “With a man,” he says, “but she… It was just once.”

His cheeks are bright red, and _oh_ , Tim wants to trace his fingertips over them and feel the heat for himself. He probably would, if his wrists weren’t still in Jackson’s hands, however loosely.

“Well,” he murmurs, “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem at all.” A smile curls his mouth. “How about we sit down, get comfortable, and I teach you a thing or two?”

The relief that flickers into Jackson’s expression is obvious. “I can do that.”

He takes him to the couch first, instead of the bed. Keeps his touches slow and telegraphed. Slowly, in between a make-out session like he hasn’t had since he was a teenager, Tim works open Jackson’s shirt. Guides hands to the buttons of his own shirt, when Jackson seems a little too distracted (or maybe just too inexperienced) to follow the cues to reciprocate. He’s hesitant to touch, but Tim guides him through that too, and even the cautious touches from those calloused, warm hands are more than good enough for him. For a time.

There are scars, definitely, but Tim finds them more fascinating than off-putting. Varied textures under his fingers, then his lips, every piece of it unique to the man in front of him. He wonders about the stories behind them, but doesn't ask. Maybe some other time, if there is another time.

Jackson learns fast, ending up being most responsive to quiet instruction when he can't figure something out through pure mimicry. It's not the first time Tim's had this particular feeling, but there's something utterly intoxicating about having someone half again his size obeying every murmur and graze of his fingers without question, falling into his every touch. Like playing an instrument. He sucks a bruise onto the jut of a collarbone, and Jackson presses into it and holds him tighter.

Somehow, he's still not quite expecting it to be Jackson that ends up spread out over the sheets, thighs parting to welcome him between them. Most people assume — and _he_ assumed too — that someone of that size… It doesn't matter. He's more than happy to fit himself there, finding Jackson yielding at every turn instead of fighting, like he expected. Letting him take charge and strip the both of them down without protest or challenge or anything except flushed skin and hooded eyes.

It's an _excellent_ discovery. Tim can't even begin to resist what's being offered.

Jackson digs nails into his back at a questing pass of his fingers, but nods when Tim looks to him. A little nervous, perhaps, but willing all the same. It's nice, to have that much trust handed to him, but Tim puts aside the fantasy of sinking deep and owning this man from the inside out. Another thing that isn't for this time. (An all-but virgin? He could coax him open, eventually, but that's a process he doubts Jackson currently has the patience for. Tim might not have patience for it right now either.)

There are still pleasures to be had from a finger or two, without it having to be all about the later acts. He can still slide his fingers inside, careful and slow, until Jackson goes from quiet, flushed arousal to moaning and pressing down against his hand.

Tim takes the time to commit the view to memory before he moves, guiding Jackson to lie on his side with them both facing each other, and drawing one heavy thigh up over his own to keep him open. He slides his fingers back inside, wraps his other hand around the weight of them both — as much as he can — and keeps his eyes open to watch every moment of that expression.

That, more than anything, ends up being his undoing. He didn’t think he was close, but when Jackson curls into him, digging nails into his shoulder and muffling a cry against the pillow, the _look_ on his face slingshots him into a release of his own with what feels like no warning.

Physically, and logically, he knows as he catches his breath that he’s had better nights. More experienced partners, and things more involved than a mutual handjob, have certainly led to higher levels of pleasure. Yet, the high, tight feeling in his chest as he leans in and claims a soft kiss is altogether new. Maybe it’s just the person, or actually living a fantasy he’s had longer than Jackson knows, but he doesn’t think he’d trade this night for any of his others. Not ever.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises.

Jackson’s eyes crack open, and it’s the most relaxed Tim’s ever seen him. With the tension gone from his face, the rugged handsomeness becomes something beautiful, something that Tim has to pause and admire for a few moments, even after he’s given an accepting nod.

He’s reluctant to leave the bed, but he does it. He leaves the door open to the bathroom as he slips inside to wash his hands and then dry them off again.

Tim takes a slow, bracing breath before he collects the gun from under the sink, too.

‘Jackson.’ As if that fooled him for a single second.

The Red Hood’s eyes are closed when Tim slips back into the room, and only open when he’s settled back on the bed. It’s easy to see the exact moment that he takes in the gun in Tim’s hand, resting on the pillow between them with the muzzle tilted towards his head. One twitch of a finger away from killing him, if necessary.

Between one breath and the next, surprise flickers away and the Red Hood’s expression flattens out. He becomes coiled, focused, like a predator a step from springing. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. Tim regrets, a bit, disturbing the peacefulness he had. Although, there’s something very intensely thrilling about being the focus of those blue-green eyes, and everything this man is capable of.

“I’d like you to listen to me,” he says, keeping his voice soft.

There’s a moment of pause, then a rough, “Well, you’ve definitely got my attention.”

Tim wants to reach a hand out, brush the strands of hair away from his face, but he’s not nearly that dumb. “I know who you are,” he says instead. “You’re the Red Hood. Jason Todd.”

He can hear Jason’s breath catch. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I know Bruce Wayne is Batman too,” he says, instead of immediately answering, and then he huffs an amused breath and pretends not to see how Jason’s breath has gone short and sharp. “Random luck, a very distinctive acrobatic trick, and a child’s willingness to believe what adults consider to be ridiculous. I probably would have dismissed it, if I were any older when I put it together. The campaign he runs to make that connection seem impossible is impressive, really.”

Jason shifts a little, one hand bracing, and Tim intercedes before it can become a lunge or something worse.

“I don’t want to shoot you, Jason, but please don’t mistake that as my not being willing to. Still, please.”

There’s a moment where Tim’s not sure if he’s going to listen, but then Jason scoffs and the hand he was pressing to the mattress pulls away. “You know what’s going to happen if you pull that thing?” he demands.

“Yes,” Tim answers. “It’ll be loud; might deafen me for a time, but it will hurt regardless. There’s a likely chance that if I’m not good enough to hide it, the rest of your family comes after me. But most importantly, I’ll have destroyed something important. Someone that makes this world a better place.” He watches the play of reaction across Jason’s face, and gives a thin smile himself. “You’d be the first person I’ve killed that I respect; I imagine that might come with a couple new repercussions, emotionally speaking. I’ll cross that bridge if I have to.”

He’ll regret the necessity, but not the action. Tim’s made it a point to never regret what keeps him alive.

Jason’s jaw clenches down. “If you knew who I was from the start, what was the _point_ of all this? Why did you…?” He doesn't finish the sentence.

"The rest, I did because you were useful. I wasn't lying about any of it; you're smart, you understand the business, and you're very good at scaring people when I need it. I thought we could both get what we wanted. I could make use of your talents, and learn about you, and you could see who I am and how I run things. As for this," he lifts his free hand just enough to flick between them, "well, I think you're attractive. I have since I got my first looks at you, when you came back to town. The opportunity was there, you were willing, so I indulged."

"You lied to me," Jason accuses, and Tim scoffs.

"Says the man who slept with me under a false name, not sure whether or not he was going to kill me. Just because I knew they were lies doesn't mean you lied any less than I did." He raises an eyebrow, holding Jason's gaze. "Look at that; we're both selfish liars. Think we can agree to call that part of it even and move on?"

Jason's teeth grind, he can almost hear it, but he gives a tense nod. "Fine. So what now? You got what you wanted, so now it's time to kick me out the door? End the whole charade?"

"Actually," Tim starts, "I was wondering if you might be interested in working with me, now that we understand each other."

Jason blinks, mouth opening and then shutting again. The only thing that manages to get out is a stunned, "What?"

He can't exactly shrug, lying on his side, but he lifts his top shoulder in some approximation of one. "You have a pretty decent grasp on the lower-Gotham drug trade, and you've gotten the chance to see how I operate during the last couple weeks. If you're not planning on killing me for that, I'd be interested in becoming partners. All our cards on the table this time. If you're interested too."

It's a lot he's asking, and he knows it. The Red Hood might have taken over a good chunk of the drug trade when he came back into town, but Tim's not blind enough to believe it was because he had sudden aspirations to be a crime boss. It was a means to an end, a convenient source of income, and — Tim suspects, given what he's dug up on Jason's original parents — a way to exercise some level of control over the kind of crime that hits closest to home. None of that provides any guarantee that Jason might be interested in expanding into other areas. It's a gamble, definitely.

"You think…” Jason snorts an angry, laughing breath. "You've known who I was the whole time. How the hell am I supposed to trust that what I've seen is even _close_ to what you really do? For all I know, you tailor-made the whole thing just for me."

"That's true. I could have. I'm not claiming I'm a good person, Jason. I've committed crimes, killed people, had them tortured for information when I needed it. I'll admit that. But what I _don't_ do, is draw attention. Weapons, trafficking, partnering up with the psychopaths? That draws attention. I am perfectly willing to be a smoothly run, quiet, and moderately successful family, if it means my enemies don't include a bunch of vigilantes."

And if it means that he gets to know and work with the Red Hood. Jason Todd. _Robin_. He never expected to get any sort of chance to meet the Robin that died, that he watched and followed for the years beforehand (that he still has a box of pictures of, stashed away in a closet). He admired that freedom as a child, wanted it, and to learn that his Robin _did_ grow up, into _this_ … This dangerous, lethal man, taking Gotham by storm and pulling the strings of everyone around him with so much mastery that Tim couldn't help but be impressed, even just watching from a distance. God, it was beautiful.

If Tim could just stand beside him and watch that brilliance at work… There are better options, of course, but even just being there would satisfy dreams that Tim's kept hidden away since he was just a child.

Not that anyone needs to know that. There are more than enough logical, business reasons to partner with the Red Hood; his personal ones are irrelevant.

Jason's studying him, and slowly the anger is fading. Not entirely, but enough that he sounds calm when he says, "And you think that I'm going to throw in with you? Why?"

The words come easily enough. "Because from what I understand about you, you believe that crime needs to be controlled, not eliminated. My family is one of the bigger ones, it's a good stepping stone for any expansions you might want to try, and I can collect and provide information on just about anyone. I'm offering a partnership; partial control over what we do and how we do it, and my men behind you if you ever want them."

"I don't need you. I could just take over this whole thing, or take you all down and pick up the pieces."

"You could." Tim smiles, just a little. "But it's so much easier to use an existing structure, isn't it? Isn't partial control better than having to build everything from the ground up?"

Jason's gaze is sharp. "I suppose it depends on who's running the other half. And what this 'partnership' might look like."

It's not a victory, not yet, but the flush of victory still feels real as it warms his chest. It's an important first step, getting that admission that Jason might be even a little interested. "We'd need to negotiate," Tim concedes. "I'd like to not do that part with a gun at your head; are we past the point of you being angry enough to kill me?"

The anger has mostly gone, but Tim knows a thing or two about the kind of icy, powerful rage that can simmer just under the surface. Completely hidden, at least until the opportunity to unleash it arrives. There was always a chance that this entire gambit ended in his death; the Red Hood isn't someone to be played with, and Tim's run quite the game here. He always knew that it was possible he'd get a bullet to the head for his trouble, even if everything else went smoothly.

"What do you think?" Jason asks, instead of a direct answer. His eyes are narrowed, and Tim's honestly not sure whether it's better or not that he doesn't look furious anymore.

Well, he supposes he'll find out.

"I don't think you're going to kill me," he guesses, feeling out how the words taste. "At least not immediately."

Slowly, as careful as the loaded weapon deserves, he pulls his finger off the trigger and thumbs the safety into place. Jason watches him; Tim thinks it's probably a good sign that the gun doesn't get immediately snatched away, and he leaves it on the pillow as he rolls away, in payment for that. He pauses for a moment, sitting at the edge of the bed, to leave the perfect chance for Jason to pick up that gun and end him if he wants to. He hears the sheets rustle, but nothing else comes. No last shot, no click of the safety.

Good. One small step at a time.

He heads for the bathroom again, collects a washcloth and dampens it with warm water before returning. The gun is still on the pillow, but Jason's standing, collecting the pieces of his clothes from the floor. Tim tries not to too-obviously ogle all that bare skin and muscle.

"Here," he offers, holding out the washcloth. Jason takes it, but only after a moment of studying him. "So you know, I really did only do this because I wanted to. And I hope that you wanted it too."

Jason balls the washcloth between his hands, staring down at it, and then brusquely wipes his stomach off and tosses it back. "I did." His gaze lifts. "I'm going to go. Think about… all this."

He doesn't particularly want to let Jason leave, but he understands the necessity. He can't force a conversation now and hope for a favorable outcome. "Alright. Let me know when you reach a decision, whatever it is."

"And if I decide to kill you?" Jason asks, holding his gaze.

Tim quirks a smile. "I think a gun to the head is a pretty definitive answer; I'll take it as a no. If there's anything you want answered, feel free to give me a call. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

The huff of a snort isn't quite a laugh, but he'll take it. "I'll keep that in mind."

Not wanting to make him ask for the privacy, Tim only smiles before he turns and heads back to the bathroom, closing the door this time and starting up the shower. By the time he comes back out, there's no trace of 'Jackson Farrelli' left in the room.

The gun's gone too.

 

* * *

 

Jason doesn't call, but three weeks later Tim comes back to the manor to find the guards posted at the step unconscious, and a sticky note stuck to his front door. Scrawling, bold letters that he recognizes from 'Jackson's' notes.

 _Let's talk_.

Most would probably classify it as a mistake, but Tim orders the two members of his escort to wait outside and walks in alone. His gaze sweeps the entrance hall, but might as well not have. The Red Hood is sitting on the sweeping staircase that leads up to the second floor, an elbow resting on one knee, his other leg stretched out across the steps. The helmet is in place, and there's a gun in his gloved hand, hanging near the calf of the propped up leg. The very picture of relaxed lethality.

"Come up with a decision?" Tim calls, moving forward till he stands at the base of the stairs.

The Red Hood stands as well, shifting to his feet with fluid grace and approaching him, the handgun loose at his side. "I want to know something, first." The electronic effect of the helmet makes his voice all but unrecognizable, and if Tim couldn't more or less match his height and build to the Jason he knows, maybe he would wonder if it was the same person. But he knows. He feels it.

"I'm an open book."

Jason scoffs. "No you're not," is the immediate counter.

Tim finds his answer equally fast. "I am to you. Whatever you want to know, just ask."

Jason doesn't move, but there is a pause before he says, "What are you getting out of this? You've offered me control, support, information… Why? Where's your benefit?"

“Your name attached to my organization,” Tim starts with, drumming fingers against his thigh. “Protection and conditional immunity from at least you, if not the other Bats. Probably an increased chance of my rivals being taken down, since they’d be yours as well. Plus, I’d have you at my side; someone smart and knowledgeable enough to run this with me, instead of just taking orders. Want me to keep going?”

Jason shakes his head, and pauses another moment. The eventual, “I didn’t know you were looking for someone to help you run things,” sounds a little surprised. At least, he thinks it does; the helmet makes reading Jason’s voice very difficult.

“I’m not, unless it’s you. The only person I would want as a partner is someone who I'd trust to contribute, without needing to be guided." Tim wishes he could see the reaction he must be getting, but he has to settle for just holding his head high and ignoring the discomfort. He's never needed anyone's approval before, and he's not about to start needing it now. Even if it is from— "You're the only person I can think of that I respect enough to offer the position. If you want it."

There's no immediate answer, no visible reaction in body language. It's maybe one of the more difficult things he remembers having to do in a long time, but Tim makes himself stay still and hold the blank gaze of the helmet perfectly evenly.

Finally, Jason lifts his free hand, pressing something near the back of the helmet that makes it release with a hiss of air. Beneath, his hair is curling more than Tim's used to seeing it, and there's a sharp shock of white near his left temple. He's heard reports of the Red Hood still wearing a domino mask, beneath the helmet, but this time he's bare-faced. As handsome as Tim remembers, though he shuts that line of thought up quick. No need to complicate things by pursuing that. Not yet, anyway.

The helmet hangs from his fingers, and Jason spins the gun still held in his other hand and holds it out, offering him the grip. "This is yours."

As Tim takes it, he realizes that yes, it is. It's the gun that Jason took from the pillow. Intact, far as he can see.

"I'm not convinced," Jason says, hand coming to rest against his hip, "but I'm willing to listen."

Tim smiles. "That's all I need.”


End file.
